


My Life Without You

by Makani



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Loss, M/M, Marriage, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makani/pseuds/Makani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach fiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”  
John woke with a start. He was covered in sweat, breathing frantically, just as he always was when this particular dream hit him. Even after two years, the pain hadn’t ebbed completely. He felt a soft hand touching his shoulder, calming him, offering gentle comfort without being pushy about it.   
“That dream again, love?”, Mary’s gentle voice queried. John swallowed and nodded guiltily. He had told her, of course, not long after meeting her. He had told her that he was a broken man, that a part of him was gone, possibly for good. She hadn’t cared. Later she told him that she had already been in love with him at that point and would have taken any part he was willing to give to her. Somehow that did nothing to ease his guilt, quite the contrary actually.

But even now, even now that he was married to this wonderful, kind and forgiving woman, dreams of the day his world ended kept haunting him and there was nothing he could do about it. They didn’t make quite as frequent an appearance anymore. If he was honest with himself, he did dream of Sherlock almost every night. But there were some happy dreams of him now too. Memories of the two of them giggling inappropriately at crime scenes for example. Sometimes they weren’t memories at all, but beautiful fantasies that his mind came up with, no doubt to ease his pain. Sherlock coming back, telling him he was alive, telling him that somehow he had survived the fall. Of course John knew that it wasn’t healthy to dwell on these dreams, not healthy at all. He was a doctor, he knew that there was a large part of him that was still trying to avoid the reality that his best friend would never wake him with the violin at four in the morning ever again. But he told himself that he had tried his best, that he had moved on. After all, he was married now, wasn’t he?

Moving away from Baker Street had been hard. Of course, in the very beginning he also hadn’t managed to go back to the flat. It had been so full of memories of Sherlock, of the cases they had solved together, of late night drinks and just… Sherlock. 

But when he did brave going back to the flat, he didn’t leave it for almost a week. The first day he had walked on eggshells, expecting his friend to walk through the door any minute and ask him what he had done to all his precious experiments. Of course Sherlock didn’t show up, no miracle happened, no matter how much John wished for one. In the evening he had walked up to his bedroom, feeling like an intruder, even though he knew he was being ridiculous. Sherlock was far beyond caring whether John invaded his privacy now. 

He had just lain there, on Sherlock’s bed, looking up at the same ceiling Sherlock must have stared at countless times. The room smelled of him, a mixture of expensive cologne and Sherlocks own personal fragrance. John had buried his head in his friend’s pillow and cried himself to sleep.

A week later, Harry had found him, hugging one of Sherlock’s shirts like it was a teddy bear. They might not get along very well, but he couldn’t deny that she did her best back then. She forced him to get cleaned up, shave for the first time in what felt like forever and dragged him to see Ella, even though he protested that if the therapist hadn’t even managed to help him get over the war, there was no way she could be helpful now. But Harry hadn’t listened and John simply hadn’t had the energy to argue. 

She had turned out to be just as unhelpful as he had expected of course. Asked him to tell her what he wanted to tell Sherlock. He had felt no desire to comply. These words weren’t meant for her. 

Harry had picked him up again, as if doubting that he would make it home on his own. He hadn’t been all that bothered, really. They had met Mrs. Hudson in the hallway and, on impulse, John had asked her if she could visit Sherlock’s grave with him the next day. Harry had been a little hurt because he hadn’t bid her to come along, but again, he couldn’t summon the energy to feel guilty or even to care all that much. 

The next day he had said what needed to be said to the cold stone in front of him. It hadn’t really felt like talking to Sherlock, but it was the best he could do. Ella would’ve been proud. John had felt empty afterwards, though. The miracle he had begged for hadn’t happened. Sherlock was dead and he stayed that way.

Time seemed to stand still for a while. He hadn’t visited the surgery, hadn’t really done anything except drink tea and eat take-away now and again, when his body demanded nutrition. He felt numb, and the world around him felt completely alien. He wasn’t part of this life anymore, didn’t belong to the people outside of 221B Baker Street, felt no connection to anybody. 

His limp returned after a while and so did his tremors. However, his dreams had become quite different. Where he used to dream of the war, his nightmares were now filled with visions of Sherlock, Sherlock jumping… falling… And sometimes he didn’t even know if it was Sherlock falling or himself, because it didn’t matter, he was dead either way.

There were times when he considered following his closest friend. His world had ended anyway, he might as well end the pain. He came fairly close, once. That one fateful day he had taken a cab to Bart’s Hospital and walked up all the way to the rooftop. This was where it had happened. This was the building that his friend had chosen to end his life. He could simply do the same, couldn’t he? Even now, John wasn’t sure if he would have jumped, if he had actually reached that level of despair. But as he was walking to the edge of the roof, his phone started ringing.

Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother had tried to get in touch with him multiple times after the funeral. John had never once answered. This man had betrayed them, had betrayed Sherlock. He gave Moriarty the weapon to destroy his own brother. There was no redemption for such a betrayal, no way John could ever forgive this. And yet, there, on the rooftop he answered his phone.

“Don’t even think about it, John.”, came the familiar drawl of Mycroft’s voice, “You know he wouldn’t have wanted this.” His voice was almost gentle on the last sentence. John hated him all the more for it.

“Well, correct me if I’m mistaken, but I’m fairly certain this is none of your bloody business”, he shot back, “And I can’t bloody ask him if he wanted this because he is not here anymore!” His voice cracked at the end and tears started streaming down his face. Mycroft had no right, no right at all! 

However, the sudden burst of energy that his anger had fuelled vanished as quickly as it had come and left behind the feelings of weariness and apathy that John had gotten used to during the last few weeks. When Mycroft didn’t say anything else, he asked in a very quiet, defeated voice: “Why do you even care what happens to me, Mycroft?”

The answer came back almost as dejectedly as the question had been. “Because I cannot fail him again, John.” 

His voice hadn’t come out of John’s phone though. Mycroft had been standing right behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

For some reason, John couldn’t hate Mycroft anymore after this. He felt no real fondness for the man either, but he realised that behind the cold façade was a man who had lost his brother, who was just as hurt and desperate as he himself was.

Half a year passed and everybody seemed to move on. Lestrade had called John to tell him he had managed to clear Sherlock’s name, but even that news didn’t touch him at the time. It only proved how pointless his friend’s death had been. 

 

A kiss on his brow shook John out of his dark thoughts. Mary had made a cup of tea for him and he hadn’t even noticed her absence while she prepared it. Angry at himself, he shook his head as if the physical movement could somehow clear out thoughts of his past. 

“I’m so sorry, love.”, He mumbled, embarrassed “You really didn’t need to get up just for me, I’m fine, really.” 

“Don’t worry about it.”, She answered, her voice gentle, “I know how much tea helps you relax and it is almost 7am so we would’ve had to get up soon anyway.”

“I really don’t deserve you, you know…”, he said as he hugged her close.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to help...

Sherlock stared down at the body in front of him. Moran had been the last of Moriarty’s network, he was certain of that now. 

The corpse was bloody and showed definite signs of torture.Well, Sherlock hadn’t been willing to take chances. Besides, this man had been the greatest danger to John, so he deserved what he got. And yet, he felt no real triumph, just a grim satisfaction.

But that left him with a new problem. Could he actually return now? What would life be like for him? He knew John was married now, of course, had in fact examined his prospective mate very thoroughly and judged her suitable. Miss Morstan, a pale blonde nursery teacher, was kind to John and seemed to help him with his grief. In that she achieved what Sherlock hadn’t.

He had observed John, obviously. Upon hearing his speech at his supposed grave, he had been quite touched. It had been an odd emotion, not at all what Sherlock was used to. To see his friend, looking so small and broken, asking him for a miracle which he could have so easily provided. He could’ve just walked over to him and told him that it wasn’t true, that he, Sherlock, was standing right here, alive and well. 

But the desire to do this had been irrational, of course. Had he been seen with John, Moriarty’s network would have killed him, it was as easy as that. And even if he had managed to send his friend some sort of note, some sign that he was still alive, it would’ve compromised his safety to an unacceptable degree. He knew John was being watched, just as his other two ‘friends’ were. Had John’s behaviour changed too dramatically, had he shown happiness at discovering him alive and well, his life would have been in jeopardy. The risk was too high. Even in death, Moriarty was toying with him. 

Sherlock had thrown himself into the case with more fervour than ever before. But he had to admit to himself that Moriarty had been clever, more so than he could have anticipated. His organisation was spread far and wide, some of it’s members almost impossible to track. Sherlock had managed, obviously, but even he couldn’t dispose of them quickly. It had been anything but child’s play.

He thought back to his own pathetic attempt at helping John. It had been right after his name had been cleared, which he had read about in the papers and assumed it would speed along John’s, so far sluggish, healing process. Were people supposed to grieve their friends this long and to this extent? Half a year seemed excessive by any standard. Sherlock had even observed signs of his limp returning just a week before, it was completely unacceptable.

So when his name was cleared he allowed himself some hope. Surely, this was the closure that John had needed. But when he observed him, the very night of the news, at the local pub, he was anything but hopeful. His friend seemed worse than before. Sherlock couldn’t understand it at all. He did some research, trying to find something, anything that could help John. There was one site he stumbled upon online that suggested a pet could aid in the grieving process and even though he dismissed the notion at first, he did find that it offered some merit. It was definitely better than some of the alternative suggestions. 

Decision made, he sent a message through his homeless network, asking if one of their dogs had puppies at the moment. He had of course, considered all sorts of animals, but rodents didn’t offer enough of an attachment and cats made him sneeze, so a dog seemed the only logical choice. It had to be a puppy because John was more likely to allow an innocent creature like that to stay, he reasoned. 

When he was shown to a litter of English Bulldogs, he was dubious. The thought of one of these wrinkly and frankly quite ugly creatures filling the hole that his absence had left in John’s life seemed even more ridiculous now that he had seen the creatures. But he picked one up anyway and took it to his hide-out. He decided it was best to observe the beast for a day or so, to make sure it was suitable. It was most unnerving, especially because the animal seemed to have a fondness for chewing things, preferably his medical equipment (at least what little he had left). The puppy kept picking up syringes and carrying them to him, wagging his stub of a tail as if he was doing Sherlock a great favour. He was disgusted.

It had, however, helped him with finding a name for the creature. Gladstone, just like the bag that people had once used to carry medical equipment in. It seemed fitting somehow.

After being satisfied that the bulldog would not harm John in any way, he typed a letter and attached it to the dog’s collar. He had been sorely tempted to write something compromising, to let John know that he was alive, that he was right here, just a few streets away. But of course he couldn’t do that. So the letter simply read:

“Mr. Watson,  
This puppy is called Gladstone and he is in need of a home.   
Please provide one for him.”

The missing ‘SH’ at the end seemed strange. He never sent messages without it, a habit he had picked up as a young man. But those two letters would have put John in danger and that was unacceptable. So he just tucked the letter under the collar and took the puppy to Baker Street, where he attached the lead to the doorknob, rung the bell and left as quickly as possible, stopping at a safe distance to observe the reaction of his best, his only, friend. 

John’s appearance had broken Sherlock’s heart. The man looked like he hadn’t cared about personal hygiene in a long time, his clothes wrinkled and somewhat shabby looking. It reminded Sherlock of the cabbie of their first case together, ‘A Study in Pink’ as John had called it in his blog. There was a flash of annoyance in Sherlock’s head as he remembered the blog entry, but it quickly vanished again. At the time he had deduced that the cabbie was keeping up appearances but not really planning ahead. Somehow, John was worse. He didn’t seem to even care about keeping up appearances.

It made no sense, really. Why should John be this upset over losing him? Yes, Sherlock had been a big part of his life and he had cured his limp (which, Sherlock noticed with dismay, had definitely returned) by reintroducing danger into John’s life. But really, Sherlock had seen many cases in which people had lost loved ones and very few had ever even come close to John’s level of dismay.

When John saw the puppy, his eyebrows shot up. His eyes still seemed a little vacant, but there was at least a glimmer of interest in them. Sherlock allowed himself to hope that his plan might be successful, at least to some degree. What he didn’t expect was for John to read the note, look up and call his name. 

Surely he hadn’t given himself away with only three sentences? He definitely hadn’t signed the note. So why would John assume that he sent the puppy? His whole demeanour had changed, he seemed alert as he looked around the street. Instinctively, Sherlock shrank back further against the wall. This had certainly not been part of his plan. When John picked up the creature and started walking along Baker Street to look for him, he made his escape. It wouldn’t do at all if he was discovered. And yet, at that moment, there had been a strange longing, the most disconcerting feeling, a desire to walk over to John and tell him everything, to touch him, maybe even hug him. It had been completely illogical, of course, and Sherlock had dismissed such strange a notion. He could not allow himself to be ruled by emotions, they had always been beneath him and he’d do well to remember that. 

Still, he couldn’t stay away completely. In hindsight, this was probably part of the reason it took him so long to track down all of Moriarty’s network. But then, considering that he was only hunting these people down to keep his friend safe, it had made sense to check on John’s well-being regularly. That was his main objective, after all, to keep his friends safe. It had all been very logical, he told himself, no messy emotions involved at all. Admittedly, staying in the abandoned house nearby just to keep an eye on John might have been a little… thorough, but it had simply been concern. Nothing else. Nothing else at all….


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How John met Mary...

“Darling, could you take Gladstone out, please? He seems a little desperate…”

John rolled his eyes. The cute puppy he had found one and a half years ago had turned into a rather ugly looking creature whose favourite occupation seemed to be drooling onto the carpet. Of course he still loved the dog. He sighed. 

There had been a moment, when he had first read the note on Gladstone’s collar that he had been absolutely certain this puppy had come from Sherlock. It had been completely ridiculous of course, after all, how could a dead man send anything? Besides, he was fairly certain that Sherlock would see no use at all in owning a pet. But the combination of the odd name, which seemed to have Sherlock written all over it and the way the message was phrased, had just made him so sure that this was his best friend’s doing. He had run up and down the street, looking for a sign saying that his miracle had happened, that now, after his name was cleared, Sherlock had finally decided to return. He had no such luck of course. But he felt a desperate need to keep the wrinkly little puppy anyway.

Gladstone had patted after him, licked his face when the grief took hold of him and forced him to go out on a daily basis. For that he would be eternally grateful to the little creature. He wasn’t sure if he could have managed on his own much longer. And then, of course, only about a month after he had found him on his doorstep, on a cold and miserable winter morning, Gladstone had changed his life completely.

It had been a very grey day with the occasional rain drizzling down. John hadn’t felt like taking Gladstone out, but he had little choice in the matter so they went to the local park. He had trained the dog to come back when called and so far Gladstone had been fairly good at it, so he hadn’t expected there to be a problem with letting him off lead. But that day, Gladstone had other plans. The moment John had detached the lead the creature had bolted as fast as his stubbly legs would carry him and John had little choice but to sprint after him, screaming his name at the top of his lungs.

He found his dog harassing a young woman, jumping all over her. His cheeks started to burn as he walked up to her and muttered, “Sorry. I’m so sorry, he’s not normally like that at all, I thought he’d understood the concept of coming back when called, I’m so, so very sorry….”.  
That was when she looked up at him, her face radiant with a beautiful smile.

“Don’t worry about it”, she said with a melodious voice as she brushed her hand over Gladstone’s head, “He just wanted a snuggle. I love dogs, how old is he?” He laugh sounded so genuine that John couldn’t help but smile back. It occurred to him that he hadn’t smiled in a very long time and the expression seemed almost alien on his face. 

“I’m not really sure. I found him about a month ago, he was abandoned, I think..”

“Aww, the poor dear”, she responded, “It’s a shame people would abandon such a sweetheart.” She gave John an interested look, obviously judging his character. “If you really want to make it up to me, you could always buy me a cup of coffee. I’m Mary by the way.” Her smile turned almost shy at these words, though no less sincere. 

John found himself agreeing, even though he had carefully avoided situations like this since Sherlock’s death, mostly because he felt like he had nothing to say anyway, nothing to give to a potential girlfriend. His heart had turned to ice, and he never did anything interesting anymore, so he couldn’t even tell good stories. But with this girl, this Mary, he at least wanted to try. Her heart-shaped face was framed beautifully by blonde curls and she just seemed so… real. 

They walked past Baker Street because John couldn’t very well take Gladstone into a Café. He was now rather thankful for his earlier misbehaviour and left the puppy with a promise to pick up some treats for him on the way home. Then he took Mary to a nice little coffee house not far from Baker Street where he found a lovely private table for them.

The first twenty minutes were hard. There had been a very good reason why he had avoided these situations, after all. You can only talk about the weather for so long before it seems obvious that you try to avoid any conversation that could lead down a dangerous path. Mary was kind, there was no doubt about it, asking questions about Gladstone. But since John hadn’t actually owned the dog for more than a month, there wasn’t a lot he could say on that topic either. He tried to ask about her and she seemed willing enough to comply with that too. She told him that she was a nursery teacher, that she had been raised by a father who died in a plane crash shortly after she had turned 18 and about the little house he had left her just outside London. 

It was only when these generic topics ran out and the conversation became one-sided that John started to feel uncomfortable. Surely, bringing up the recent death of his best friend on what could definitely be considered a date wasn’t a clever idea. And yet he didn’t really know what else he could talk about. He was still considering the best course of action when Mary asked, voice gentle.

“So who did you lose?”

He was perplexed for a moment. “What?”

She clarified, “I can see you are mourning someone, you seem sad and try to avoid topics. I lost my father when I was 18 years old...” Carefully, she extended a hand to rest on his, “I know what it feels like… Tell me about it?”

And somehow, John felt like he could talk to her. Ella had been trying to get him to do this very thing for months now, but he hadn’t been able to open up to her. She didn’t care. Somehow, Mary was different, mostly because it was quite obvious that she did care.

“My best friend..”, He began haltingly, “Sherlock Holmes, he committed suicide right in front of my eyes. We were talking on the phone…” John squeezed his eyes shut and heard Mary’s sharp intake of breath.

“The Sherlock Holmes?”, she asked, “the one in the newspapers?”

He nodded morosely. “They cleared his name, you know.”, John added because it he felt the need to clarify, to express that his friend had not been a fraud.

“I know…”, she replied, “that was in the papers too.”

They were quiet for a while, neither of them quite knowing what to say. It was Mary who broke the silence again.

“Were you romantically involved?”

Her voice wasn’t judgemental, just kind and interested but still John almost choked on his tea.

“No!”, he barely got the word out, sputtering tea. He swallowed and tried again. “No. I’m not gay But.. We were very close, living together as flatmates, working together on cases… I wasn’t limping when he was with me, isn’t that strange? Psychosomatic limp and he cured it within a day of meeting me. Didn’t last though.” The last sentence had been barely a whisper, tears starting to well up and choke him. 

“Not strange at all”, she answered in a soft voice, “When my father died, I developed a stutter for a while. Apparently that was psychosomatic too. These things just happen. Mine went away again after a year or so, though.”

Her phone rang and she looked up at John apologetically. “Would you mind horribly if I took this? It’s work, I’m not sure why they’d call me on my day off but it might be important.”

“Of course”, he replied, glad for a break from talking. 

Mary walked outside and talked on the phone for a few minutes, then returned. 

“John”, she began, “I’m so very sorry, but one nursery teacher called sick and another just left with a fever. They seem quite desperate for help.”

“Don’t worry about it”, he tried to reassure her, “I’m alright really and it was.. Good.. To be able to talk to someone.”

John wasn’t sure what he should do now. Would she want to see him again after this? Probably not. People were normally put off when you almost cried on a first date. Shame, he really liked her. Maybe he should give her his phone number, just in case. He was about to do just that when she beat him to the punch.

“Here”, she said as she handed him a little card, “This has my name, address and number on it.. Call me?” The last sentence had obviously been a question. She seemed endearingly unsure and shy, but not to the point of being difficult to deal with. Some girls were so shy that they wouldn’t tell you what they wanted or thought of you. Mary didn’t seem to be like that at all, just not over-confident.

“Of course I’ll call.”, He replied, a smile in his voice. It was strange how she did this, causing him to smile when he hadn’t thought he was physically able to do so anymore. “I’d really like to meet you again, actually. Go on a proper date maybe?” This time it was him who left the last sentence open as a question, to make sure she could still qualify that she was just looking for a friend or something of the sort. 

There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation before she answered. “That would be lovely.”

She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and added. “Try to find something that makes you happy. It will help with the grief. And remember that it does get better, even if you don’t think it ever will. Call me.” Not a question this time. 

Then she was off and left a slightly baffled John sitting in the café.

 

Gladstone was nuzzling his knee and snapped John out of his reverie. He put on his coat and took him for his walk, smiling a little to himself. After all, this ugly little dog had made his life so much better in so many ways…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is getting married

Sherlock sat down heavily, staring down at the phone in his hand. He had typed a message to the number he had long since memorised. No matter how often he changed phone, he would always be able to reach John. 

The message simply read: Not dead. SH

But he couldn’t bring himself to press the send button. It didn’t seem enough, not after everything that had happened. Besides, John might not want to see him, might not be interested in their friendship anymore. The thought of that produced a funny feeling in Sherlocks gut that he tried to analyse immediately. It certainly wasn’t a very pleasant feeling, not dissimilar to a stab wound. He briefly wondered if he might have caught some strange illness during his years of exile.  
Either way, a text didn’t seem sufficient somehow. And John was married now, he wasn’t sure if that changed things. Sherlock thought back to the day of his best friend’s wedding…

It had been over one year since John had met the girl, Mary Morstan and it had been very strange to watch the two of them. Sherlock had always been John’s priority before, he had canceled and interrupted many dates on his friend’s behalf. But this time, Sherlock didn’t interfere and the relationship seemed to be blossoming.

Sure, in the beginning it had seemed more like a friendship than anything else. It had taken almost three months before John had accompanied her into her apartment for the first time. And Sherlock had been watching. Or at least he had always had somebody from his homeless network watching. He read the reports, saw the change in John, how he slowly but surely seemed to get happier, enjoy life more again. A small part of Sherlock, one that he felt something like guilt for, felt glad that he kept his limp, despite everything else. It seemed like, no matter how happy Miss Morstan could make John, she couldn’t cure him in the way Sherlock had done. 

When Sherlock had received the report that John had proposed on the first anniversary of Mary’s and his first meeting, he hadn’t believed it at first. Weren’t these things supposed to take longer? He felt like he was running out of time and he didn’t know how to account for this feeling. So what if John married her? She seemed to make him happy, he had researched her and been satisfied with the results, so why would he be so panicked by this announcement? 

He was probably worried that it would change the way they were as friends when he finally returned. Yes, that must be it. Would a married man still chase killers all around London? What if John had children? From what Sherlock had been able to observe about fathers, they were normally very careful so they could continue to provide for their offspring. Also, children would make excellent hostages criminals could use against them. The whole idea was ridiculous, surely John must see that. But then, John didn’t know he was alive, so he also couldn’t fathom that there was a chance to return to their life of fighting crime. Sherlock briefly considered letting him know, but for the millionth time dismissed the idea as ridiculous.

The day before John’s wedding, he visited Molly, something he didn’t allow himself very often for fear of compromising his position. Her eyes had widened when she’d seen who it was. He gave her a once over, deducing her without really thinking about it. 

“Sorry your date didn’t go well last night”, he said by way of greeting. 

“How did you…?”, she stuttered. Sherlock sighed. No matter how many times he deduced people they would still be surprised that he was able to. Couldn’t their ordinary brains get used to it and just accept his statements? But then, why was he so annoyed? He had always enjoyed explaining his deductions to John. He decided to grace her with an answer.

“There is some make-up left at the side of your face. You don’t normally wear this much make-up, which suggests that you dressed up for someone. It must have been yesterday, since your cleaning routine surely wouldn’t allow old make-up to remain on your face for more than a day. I know it went badly, because of the chocolate stain on your jumper. Obviously comfort eating today. Women don’t tend to eat right after dates that went well, mostly because they want to stay slim and pretty for their prospective partner. Besides…”, he added thoughtfully, “You’d seem happier if you’d just had a really good date.”

Her eyes widened a bit and she opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it without having uttered a word. She tried again, but Sherlock was faster. “Mind if I come in?”, he asked, though it didn’t really sound like a question, “Only, pretending to be dead doesn’t work so well if you linger on doorsteps for too long.”

She stepped aside obligingly and he walked into her warm little flat.

After a moment of silence, she asked in a hesitant voice: “Why are you here, Sherlock? Do you need help, are you in trouble?”

“I need your help”, he said curtly, then after another brief pause added, “I need you to pretend that I’m your date for a day.”

Her eyebrows shut up. “What….?”, she stuttered, “But..What?!”

He sighed dramatically. Really, most people were just too slow in understanding things. “John”, he elaborated, “He’s getting married tomorrow.” That should be explanation enough, even for idiots.

“I still don’t understand, Sherlock.”, She admitted, “What does that have to do with anything?”

He would have to be more precise then. Fine, he could spell things out. Somehow it came out rushed and frantic though. “He is getting married and I need to be there. That’s what friends are supposed to do, aren’t they? Now I understand that I can’t just waltz in there as if nothing had happened, but I can’t stay away either. He would never forgive that if.. If I ever.. You know. Anyway, given his friendly nature I am absolutely certain he invited you. I will go masked of course, so nobody will see who I am. Considering that you hardly kept in touch at all with him, probably out of guilt for your involvement in my faked death, he is unlikely to want to talk to you for more than a little bit of friendly small talk. You will introduce me as Robert, your date and nobody will be any the wiser.”

She looked as if she was going to faint and Sherlock briefly wondered if he had overwhelmed her brain with too much information. It was so hard to tell what was too much for ordinary people. She collapsed onto her couch, her eyes wide and staring at him.

“Sherlock, you can’t be serious!”, she said in a quiet voice. “It’s such a big risk. I have heard you are a good actor, but I’m fairly certain that I can’t pull this off. It was hard enough to lie to John about your supposed death, but this…” The look she gave her was almost pleading, like there was more to this than she was saying.

He saw her hand twitch in his direction and bit down on his tongue to keep his latest deduction from slipping out. Obviously this wasn’t just worry about John finding out. Molly Hooper had dreamed of dating Sherlock for too long to want to do it covertly, with him pretending to be someone else. Human beings and their petty little feelings. They were ridiculous and Sherlock was glad to be above all this. Though there was a small voice in the back of his mind asking why he would care so much about attending this blasted wedding if he really was above all feelings. He shut the voice down by reasoning that he was only doing this so he could tell John he had been there at a later date. That would mollify him during his initial rage. Yes, there was a perfectly rational explanation as to why Sherlock needed to be there.

It didn’t take all that long to convince Molly of his plan. She didn’t exactly agree happily, but agree she did. The next morning, Sherlock rang her doorbell, dressed suitably smart for a wedding. When she opened, wearing a pretty dress and an atrocious hat that ruined the outfit completely, she blinked.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”, she asked.

He allowed himself a smile. Even though she was expecting him, she still hadn’t recognised him. He really had done a good job on the masquerade. He was wearing a fake nose, had added several layers of make-up over his face to almost completely change the appearance of his cheekbones and donned a wig. On top of that, he had altered his walk a little and filled his clothes to make him look slightly rounder than he was. It was a shame he couldn’t do anything about his height, but he was still confident that nobody would make the connection between the blonde man standing in front of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. 

An hour later, the two of them were in a cab, Molly still gawking at him now and again. He thought about making her aware of this, but then decided against it. Most likely it would add to the deception, since everybody would expect Molly to be in awe of her good looking date. This was going very well indeed.

It felt strange to see all the people he had avoided for so long again and even stranger for none of them to recognise him. Nobody pointed a finger at him or uttered a word about a dead man walking. Lestrade talked to Molly for quite some time and Sherlock was beginning to feel less confident, but he answered the few polite questions that Lestrade asked in a fake Irish accent and the detective soon lost interest. 

Seeing Mrs. Hudson gave him a strange pang of something close to grief. She had aged quite a bit during his absence. He didn’t quite understand it himself, but in some ways, Mrs. Hudson had been more of a mother to him that Mummy ever was and he felt the desire to envelop her in a hug like he had done so often. It was strange how he had never minded touching Mrs. Hudson, or John for that matter, but always minded contact with everybody else. Skin to skin contact normally left him feeling nauseated. But with those two it was different. They were his family, but then he thought of Mycroft and had to come up with a stronger word than family. They were a part of him, essential, an extension of his own limbs. He realised that he hadn’t given much thought to how this must affect her and felt something close to shame for a moment. Then this shame was wiped away by annoyance. Since when did he care about other people’s feelings? He was a sociopath and he’d do well to remember that.

They went inside the little chapel and Sherlock saw John standing at the altar. His heart stopped. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen John during the past months, but he had always been hidden, had always known that it was impossible for John to spot him. This was different and suddenly Sherlock wondered if Molly had been right about this being a bad idea. He was masked, true, but this was John, probably the only person who might recognise him anyway. And John looked glorious in his tailored suit, smiling nervously and leaning on his walking stick, waiting for his bride to arrive.

Mary looked beautiful too, Sherlock had to admit that. Her heart shaped face was beaming and her blonde hair had been arranged in a braided crown on her head. There were wildflowers woven into her braids and it made her look angelic, especially in combination with her flowing dress. The dress was just like the rest of her - simple and yet absolutely stunning. Sherlock hated her for looking so perfect, hated her for intruding on their life, even though he had to admit that there was no ‘their life’ anymore and he hated her even more for that.

The service was generic and dull, but then John said his vows and Sherlock perked up. He wanted to hear what John would say to this woman, who was ruining everything without even knowing that there was anything to ruin.

John cleared his voice. He seemed incredibly nervous. “Mary”, he began, his voice breaking, “When we met I was a broken man. I don’t know how I made it from one day to the next, but somehow I did. You gave me something to smile about again. And even though I’ve told you a thousand times that I’m nowhere near good enough for you, somehow you stayed.” There was a small laugh throughout the chapel at that and Sherlock felt the strong desire to shush them, worried that he might miss something John said. It felt amazing to hear his voice again, even though he was declaring his love for this insufferable woman.

His voice had gone quiet. “Mary, you know my heart was shattered, I have told you so numerous times, but I feel it wouldn’t be fair not to say it again. I will give you every part of my heart that’s left, I will love you and cherish you and thank a God, I’m not sure even exists, that I found you.”

There was a pause, then he added the very generic words: “I, John Watson, take you, Mary Morstan, to be my wife. I promise to have and to hold you from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health until death do us part.”

Sherlock had wondered why his face felt so wet until he realised he had tears running down his face. And sadly, they weren’t tears of joy as was appropriate for weddings. They were tears of grief, of loss and desperation. It didn’t make sense, his best friend was getting married to a woman who made him happy. He should be happy for him. He wasn’t. Not at all, he was drowning in self pity. Molly looked over at him, worry in her eyes and put a hand on his arm. For some reason, the contact didn’t even nauseate him. He was too far gone to care.

The moment the service ended he made his exit, unsure how much of his make-up had survived his tears. 

And now, only three months later, he was finally free to tell his friend that he was there. And somehow it felt too late for that. Because John had moved on, had married and even moved out of Baker Street and rented an apartment somewhere else, with Mary. And Sherlock felt lost and confused and he didn’t like it. What had happened to him? He had never been like that before. No, that wasn’t true, he could vaguely remember feeling similar feelings as a boy. But that was long ago an irrelevant. The adult Sherlock didn’t feel like this. In fact, he didn’t feel at all. 

But then why was his heart so heavy? Why did he stare at the phone again and again, dial John’s number and not call? Why…?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs to talk to someone...

“Where are you going, love?”, Mary asked, and John stiffened when he heard the tone of her voice. It was laced with disapproval and he instinctively knew why. 

“It’s Thursday”, he said somewhat stubbornly, “I always visit.. You know I always go to the graveyard on Thursdays…” Even after all this time, even with Mary, he still had problems saying Sherlock’s name, especially when talking about the grave. 

Mary’s voice sounded a little exasperated. “John, I told you we were invited to Jenny’s baby shower today. You promised you’d come.” Had he really promised that? And had he been aware that the party in question was on a Thursday? Because he was pretty sure that he would never promise anything of the sort. Thursday was Sherlock’s day. He wasn’t even sure how this habit had started, but it made him feel like his friend was still a fixed part of his life. Even so, he knew he was being extremely unfair to Mary. She had been nothing but supportive from the start. She didn’t really understand why Sherlock had been so important to John, but she accepted it. Just like she had accepted that there was a part of John she could never have, a part that had been buried with Sherlock’s corpse. He was certain that it hurt her and he hated himself for causing this pain, but he had been honest and open with her from the start and he couldn’t do anything about it either way.

“Mary, I….” He faltered when he saw her face fall in on itself a little. “I just.. I can’t.” He finished lamely. 

She turned her face away from him, obviously not wanting him to see her face. His gut clenched. He wished he could get over Sherlock’s loss, he really did. He had seen death before, even experienced loss in his own family. Why had none of it before affected him in the way Sherlock’s fall did? He had grieved when his father had died, but life had gone on eventually. Even now that he was married, he still felt like he was waiting for his friend to come back, tell him he was an idiot and just.. be there. It was ridiculous, but there it was.

“Go then”, Mary whispered, her voice trembling, with pain and, he had to admit, quite a bit of anger. “I’ll go to the party without you. Again. I’m sure my friends sometimes wonder if I really am married.”

He winced and she turned back towards him, voice and face softening. “I’m sorry, love. I know you can’t do anything about it, but it’s just so.. frustrating sometimes. I feel like the shadow of Sherlock Holmes sometimes darkens our relationship and I don’t like it. But I understand. I really am sorry.”

And that was all wrong, because John knew that he should be the sorry one, not her, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful as he kissed her gently on the lips. He didn’t really know what else to say, so he grabbed his jacket and Gladstone and left the flat.

Half an hour later he had attached Gladstone’s lead to the fence around the cemetery and walked up to Sherlock’s grave. The dog was used to this by now and was quietly sitting next to the fence, waiting for his owner’s return.

John watered the flowers on Sherlocks grave, not speaking for a while. Then he sat next to the gravestone, leaning his back against it. The marble felt cool, even through his shirt. He wished he could lean against Sherlock instead of this stupid stone, tell him what he could only whisper into the air. But he started talking anyway, just like he always did, as if his friend was still there, listening.

“Hey Sherlock.”, He began, “I had a pretty rubbish day, you know. Pretty sure you’d enjoy knowing that you still mess up my relationships even now. Mary was fairly upset with me and I’m not sure if I can keep this up forever, you know. I mean, who walks to a grave every single week, on the same day no less? Did I ever tell you that I only visited my father’s grave about five times in total? There was the funeral of course…” John paused for a moment, thinking back on it. “Then I went a few times with my mum and even Harry. But I didn’t like it, didn’t feel like he was still there. Also, I didn’t feel like I had anything to tell him.” Another pause. “To be honest with you, I don’t really feel like you are here either. Strange, that, isn’t it? I walk here every week and tell you things and I don’t even believe you are actually still here.” A low chuckle escaped him. “I can imagine you doing your ‘human beings are so strange’ face right now. I really am an idiot, right?”

“But there are so many things I want to tell you. And I don’t know how else to do t ed on his tears.

That was another thing. People don’t cried about other people’s death two years later. At least not on a weekly basis.

“The nightmares are still there, by the way. Thanks for those, mate. You had to make me watch you jump, didn’t you? And what was all that nonsense about you being fake anyway? Why would you do that to me, try to plant that doubt? Surely nothing could be gained from that.”

He had asked these same questions a million times before, of course. It wasn’t like he was going to get an answer now, or ever. But that didn’t keep him from asking them, those questions that kept plaguing him, invading his thoughts all the time. Why would he have done this? And why did the stupid git jump off that roof in the first place. His name got cleared, so he must have known that he wasn’t a fake. His brilliant mind should have known that things would work out eventually.

John squeezed his eyes shut as images from his friend’s fall invaded his thoughts. He couldn’t do this again. Bad enough that his dreams where full of these scenes, he wouldn’t let them assault him during his waking hours. He forced himself to think of something else, of Mary and how sad she’d been that she had to go to the baby shower by herself. Of all the times she had held him after his nightmares, all the times she had listened to him and understood. She really was an angel, and he really didn’t deserve her. And yet somehow she had wanted him despite how broken he was. Had wanted the small part of his heart that he had managed to offer her and said that it was enough.

But was it? A bit late for second thoughts, he chided himself. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder… For the millionth time he wished there was someone he could talk to about this. He thought of Harry, but the thought of consulting his sister on the matter seemed ridiculous from the start. While she had been supportive after… the fall… the siblings hadn’t really gotten a lot closer. For the shortest moment, the word sibling made John consider talking to Mycroft, but he dismissed this thought of even more outlandish that talking to Harry. Not only had Mycroft and he not talked since the wedding, to which he had invited the man out of politeness rather than a desire to have him there, Sherlock had hated the man. And even though John might have found something close to forgiveness in his heart for the man, talking to him was out of the question.

Who then? Lestrade? No, Greg was too much of a bloke, good for a pint in the pub, but not really emotional conversations. It would be uncomfortable at best, but more likely incredibly embarrassing for both of them. That left Mrs. Hudson. She should’ve been his first candidate anyway, but there was, of course, a problem with talking to her. Because to do that, he would have to visit Baker Street, something he had avoided completely since moving out. He didn’t know if she had new tenants, if somebody had removed all of Sherlock’s things and changed the flat completely. The thought of that made his heart ache.

And yet, he needed to talk to somebody who had known Sherlock, somebody who would understand… 

He untied Gladstone’s leash and started walking in the direction of his former home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson finds out Sherlock is alive

Sherlock had given up on the idea of phoning or texting John. He had established that this wasn’t the right way to contact his friend after all this time so it was no use playing around with his mobile any longer than he already had.

Stupid, he chided himself, dropping the phone into his coat pocket. But where to go from here? It seemed obvious that he needed help with this problem. Mentally, Sherlock winced at the idea of needing help at anything, but pretending he didn’t wasn’t going to solve this problem. This situation involved feelings and sentiment and he knew that was anything but his area of expertise. What he might consider a good approach could irrevocably damage the relationship between John and him. If there was even going to be a relationship at all, which he wasn’t sure was all that likely.

He started considering his options. The help should ideally come from somebody who knew John and who was also adept at dealing with emotions. His mental list of people who fit this list was fairly short. He dismissed Mycroft, a horrible choice, especially considering his ‘caring is not an advantage’ speech. Lestrade got little more consideration on the basis of not being close enough to either one of them and being almost as crippled with sentiment as Sherlock himself. That left Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of her sooner, she seemed the obvious choice. Also, he would be able to observe what impact his sudden reappearance made on her and try to infer John’s reaction from that. 

Quite proud of himself for this idea, Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the cabbie an address he had wanted to give every single driver for the last two years.

“221B Baker Street, be quick about it.”

He knew that adding the ‘B’ wasn’t necessary or helpful to the cabbie and he wasn’t really going to his old flat, he was going to Mrs. Hudson’s ground floor flat, but it felt so good to say his old address. It felt like he was going home. That thought made him frown. When had he become so sentimental? Surely, one flat was just as good as another, there was no reason to become attached to his lodgings in this way. And John, the reason why he had enjoyed staying at this flat so much more than any previous one, wasn’t even there anymore. Come to think of it, somebody else might be living in the flat now. It had been three and a half months since John had moved out, it seemed ridiculous to expect Mrs. Hudson to keep everything in order for two men who were never coming back. 

But he was coming back and the thought of the flat being gone forever filled him with dread. His initial enthusiasm at returning was ebbing away fast and he started feeling slightly nervous about what he was doing. Looking down at his hand, he observed, with a certain level of curiosity, that it was shaking. There weren’t many things that could render Sherlock Holmes afraid. Of course, there had been the Baskerville case, he had admitted to being afraid then. But now, it wasn’t just regular fright that had him in it’s grip. He was terrified, dismayed at the thought that with all he had done, all he had achieved during the last two years, even this last refuge, this last semblance of the life he had before might have been ripped from him.

When the cab stopped he paid the driver and left the car almost hesitantly, unsure what to expect. Once out though, he visibly pulled himself together. Prolonging the moment wasn’t going to change his situation. So he did what he did best, pulled his scarf a little tighter, cleared all emotion from his face, and marched to the door marked 221. He knocked three, impatient times and waited.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson was there, her eyes widening, eyebrow’s shooting almost up to her hairline. Then, with a gasped, “Oh!”, she fainted.

Sherlock caught her, but only barely and because he had been anticipating this as a possible outcome. He carried the limp woman inside, laid her down on the couch as gently as possible and put the kettle on so she could have a cup of tea when she woke up. She didn’t stay under for very long, though she fainted two more times before Sherlock could manage to explain anything.

When she finally seemed to be more stable and Sherlock was starting to hope the worst might be past, she started sobbing uncontrollably. Her whole body was shaking and he was unsure how to deal with this. Awkwardly, he patted her back, but that seemed to aggravate her further, so he vanished into the kitchen again to make the tea, since the kettle had boiled a while ago. He stood there, steaming mug in hand, and waited until the crying abided a bit. 

“Oh do stop snivelling Mrs. Hudson, it is most unattractive.” His voice was a little harsh he walked back into the living room, but he had waited until he was sure she had calmed down enough to take his customary rudeness, so he was sure his tone was appropriate.

“But you were dead, they buried you.” She finally squeezed out, her voice trembling.

He sighed. This was much harder than he had hoped. “I am not dead though, so it’s an easy deduction that it was someone else they buried, surely even an average brain should be able to come to that conclusion.”

“Now, now, young man”, Mrs. Hudson began and Sherlock smiled. This was more like it, more the Mrs. Hudson he had known. Despite her somewhat feeble appearance, this woman was made of steel. “My mind may not always be able to keep up with you, but if you are going to be rude I’m going to take all your stuff and throw it out, Mycroft or no Mycroft.”

“My stuff?”, Sherlock queried. And what did Mycroft have to do with anything?

“Well, dear, he kept paying the rent for the flat. Said he wasn’t ready to go through your things yet, so it’s pretty much all still there. Except the things that John took when he moved out of course, but I doubt he took anything of yours.”

Sherlock’s heart was doing a summersault in his chest. The flat was still there as he left it, nobody else had moved in. He hadn’t felt this grateful to Mycroft in a very long time. Joyous, he bounced up, hugged Mrs. Hudson and bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. The flat looked different, obviously, all of John’s stuff was gone but it was quintessentially the same. 

“Mrs. Hudson I could kiss you”, he told his landlady, when she joined him. She had actually settled enough to smile at that comment, despite everything. Maybe it would be this easy with John too.

“Well, dear, I would like some sort of explanation though.”

“Later.” There were more important topics right now and his mind had started racing ahead, just as it always did when he was confronted with a problem. “Right now you have to help me find the right approach to break the news to John. Do you think a text would suffice or should I chose a more personal means of communication?”

For a moment the woman just stared at him. “Dearie me, you haven’t told him?” The horror was almost palpable in her voice. Bit not good then?

He was about to answer when the doorbell rang.

“Let me answer that quickly, I’ll be right back, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stood in the middle of his flat, feeling somewhat forlorn. Mrs. Hudson had sounded like it was a big deal that he hadn’t told John. Of course he knew it was, but hearing it out loud, hearing the horror in her voice somehow made the situation seem even more desperate. 

He heard muffled conversation from the bottom of the stairs, probably some salesman or other. When he was about to go downstairs to tell them to bugger off, there was a loud shout from a voice that Sherlock would always be able to recognise.

“Gladstone! Come back here, right now!”

It was John. Sherlock went rigid. Fear, anticipation and disbelief were mingling into a loud pounding in his ears. Then the ugly little creature he had given his friend in what seemed like another lifetime burst into the room and jumped up his legs. Time seemed to stand still as he heard John’s loud footsteps running up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson running right behind him, saying things like “This really isn’t a good idea, dear, let me go and get him.”

But Sherlock knew that his friend wouldn’t listen. Just as he knew that he had nowhere to run. A few more seconds and his friend would burst into the room, looking for the traitorous dog who had so thoroughly betrayed Sherlock. 

Only a few more heartbeats…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger, I'll try to get the next chapter up as quickly as possible ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally meet again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely Aurora_bee for beta reading this :)

John stood in front of the door for quite some time before he actually worked up the nerve to ring the door bell. Why had he thought this was a good idea again? It’s not like he regularly poured his heart out to other people, no matter how much Ella had tried to get him to open up to her at least. And Mrs. Hudson, while lovely, had really only been their landlady, right? No, that wasn’t quite right, she had been a lot more to them, especially to Sherlock. 

Considering how much Sherlock had generally despised being touched by other people, he’d hugged and kissed Mrs. Hudson frequently. Thinking of Sherlock, happy after a case, hugging Mrs. Hudson made John’s heart ache. This was a bad idea. But even if they didn’t talk about his deceased flatmate, the old lady would certainly be glad to have a visitor. That was what made him ring the bell at last. He should have visited sooner.

It took quite a while for Mrs. Hudson to answer and John was about to change his mind and leave when the door opened. He was about to utter some sort of greeting and maybe and apology for not getting in touch sooner when he realised what state the woman was in. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and she looked at him like he was a ghost.

“Mrs. Hudson!”, he exclaimed, “What is it? You look terrible!”

She visibly took a moment to pull herself together and he thought he heard a muttered “Of course they would come as a pair” though that made no sense.

“It’s nothing, dear, but you’ve come at a very inconvenient time. Not that I’m not happy to see you, but do you think you could maybe come back later? I could bake some lovely scones for us and we could have tea.”

Yes of course, he should have called before. Though he was still quite worried about her appearance, but she deserved her privacy, especially if she was upset over something.

He heard a noise from his old flat that almost sounded like footsteps. 

Oh. So there was someone new in the flat. He hadn’t known. Somehow, the realisation felt like a punch in his gut. What had happened to Sherlock’s things? Mycroft must have removed them… He had seemed so hesitant to do that before, but that might have simply been due to John’s presence and his guilt over Sherlock’s death. Of course Mrs. Hudson would want to rent the flat out eventually.

John didn’t have time to consider this further, because at that moment, Gladstone gave a huff and bolted up the stairs. 

“Gladstone! Come back here, right now!” He screamed, but the little dog obviously had other plans. He shot Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look and ran after his pet, running up the familiar steps leaning heavily on his walking stick. He realised that his former landlady was saying things like ‘this might not be such a good idea’ but it made no sense to him and he certainly wasn’t going to make an old lady chase after his insane dog. Besides, while the realisation that the flat was let again had been painful, he would have to deal with it eventually. Now was as good a time as any to do so.

He ran into the living room, his eyes scanning the room for Gladstone. And then he saw him… Sherlock.

His world seemed to crack into pieces like a shattered mirror. There were black spots impeding his vision and everything started turning, moving. Only Sherlock was still, standing there, like a deer caught in headlights. John didn’t know what to think, what to believe. There were tears running down his face, but he wasn’t sure what kind of tears. Happiness? Sadness? Insanity? The last seemed the most likely, because this couldn’t be his friend. It couldn’t be because he had visited his grave every Thursday for two years, had seen the man die. 

But he was there, right in front of him. He stretched out his hand as if to touch his face, though he was still too far away from Sherlock to have any chance of actually making contact. Unconsciously, it seemed, Sherlock mirrored the action and John was reminded of the last time he had his hand stretched out towards his friend, the last time he had been too far to touch, too far to do anything useful to stop him from… 

John fainted. 

 

As he was starting to drift back into consciousness, John marvelled at the dream he’d had. Sherlock back from the dead. Of course, he had dreamed similar things over the last two years, but nothing had ever seemed so real, so heartbreakingly, earth-shatteringly real. Most of the times, these dreams made him feel happy which was why the conflicting emotions raging in him confused him. Surely if Sherlock was back he would simply feel happiness, right? But no, there was anger, hurt, betrayal, mixed with fear. How very surreal… And why did his head hurt so much? It felt almost like he had banged it on something solid.

“John!” 

The voice sounded anxious. He knew this voice. How peculiar, why would he still hear him? He must still be dreaming there was no way… His body was being shaken quite vigorously. Mary never did this, not even when he was having nightmares. She was always so gentle with him. Then what was this?

“John are you alright? You hit your head quite hard I think, there’s blood. Wake up!”

His eyes snapped open. It took a moment for his blurry vision to focus, but then he saw him. Right in front of him, the mad genius, the man who had changed his life twice, once for the better and once for the worse. Here he was, staring down at him.

Baffled, John reached towards him, touching his face, trying to take in Sherlock with all the senses available to him, to dispel the vision if indeed it was one. There was solid skin under his touch, wet skin. Only then did he realise that tears were running down Sherlock’s face. The air smelled of tobacco and his former flatmate’s aftershave. It was so familiar and yet so alien at the same time. It was strange how John kept seeing the small details. The dust particles settling on Sherlock’s hair. The light streaming into the window made him look like an angel, as if he had a halo of curls around his head. Almost detached, he noticed that tears were running down his face as well.

This couldn’t be real. He had lost his mind then. It was an oddly pleasing sensation, despite the throbbing pain at the back of his head. There were tears running down his face as well, tears of pain, of joy, of something he didn’t even manage to put into words. 

“What? Why?” His own voice sounded hoarse and broken to him but he still managed to get one more word, one crucial word out: “How?!”


End file.
